


The Road

by zuzeca



Category: District 9 (2009)
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, Gore, M/M, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 09:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christopher and his son search for an escape from a crumbling world. AU crossover with Cormac McCarthy's The Road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of an old sort-of decompression/detox story, written after reading about six books which dealt heavily with violence and cannibalism, one of which was Cormac McCarthy's The Road in rapid succession for a class. Parts of it get rather brutal, but it's still one of my favorites and there was an overall good response to it, so I wanted to go ahead and archive it here.

_“There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa.” – Alan Paton, Cry, the Beloved Country_

 

He woke to darkness.

He lay quiet for a few moments, looking up to where the roof of their shelter lay. He could hear the child breathing, the soft puffs of air passing over small gills the only sound.

He reached out and touched, curled his fingers around one tiny limb, his thumb stroking against exoskeletal plates, brushing away a layer of dust. Breath stuttered, changed.

“Father?” the hatchling’s voice was soft. “Is something wrong?”

“Come on, little one,” he clicked. “Get up.”

 

The road was piled with ashes, pale grey and powdery, and blown into abstract shapes by the wind. It deadened their footsteps, rising in wisps like smoke rings.

He no longer noticed the weight of the arc gun in his arms; muscles locked about the shape of the weapon by the long miles, but he was hyper-aware of the rucksack against his side, the too-light bumps against his body an indication of their dwindling supplies.

They passed by fields, burned trees and crop stubble stark shadows in the perpetual twilight. Then, up ahead along the road, he saw the house.

It was small, with a corrugated metal roof, but had been missed by the fires and appeared mostly intact. The open door yawned, a dark rectangle of danger and possibility.

He hesitated, but they were almost out of food.

“Come,” he clicked to the child. “And stay close.”

He slid the nose of his weapon through the door, antennae twitching as he tested for scents beneath the omnipresent stench of burnt things. No fresh smell of humans, good, or any odor of his own kind, better. He stepped through.

The few pieces of furniture had been overturned, the burnable parts heaped in the center of the house, now nothing but ash. They dug through the remains, uncovered empty cans and threadbare sacks. He was about to turn aside in disgust when the child spoke.

“Father, I found something.”

Small claws wrapped around a metal cylinder, encircled in faded yellow paper. Images of ripened plant ovaries decorated the front, the pale orange circles barely distinguishable against the tawny background.

He sighed. “That’s good, little one, but we can’t eat that. Leave it behind.”

“Oh,” antennae drooped and the hatchling stared at the can. “Can’t I keep it anyway? Maybe it will be useful.”

“Very well, you may bring it if you wish, but you must carry it.”

The child perked up slightly. “I can do that.”

“Come, let’s move on.”

As they set out along the road again a thought occurred to him. “The can has human letters printed on it. Why don’t you read them to me, like I taught you?”

The hatchling wrested the cylinder up before him. Antennae waved as he examined the block letters, slowly sounding them out.

“Peaches. It says peaches.”

 

They moved southeast, retracing the steps of a journey made _before_ , when the fires and the screams turned time into a nebulous entity, forgotten in the desperate rush of _Runhidesurvive_. They lacked a map and the child did not remember, so it fell to him to decipher a true path from the tangled knots of dirt roads. He kept the distant dark humps of the mountains to his left and moved onward.

When their surroundings had brightened to the dreary fog color of a rainy day he called a halt. They squatted by the side of the road and he reached into the rucksack. 

The tiny cans of sausages had fallen under the folded tarp and he had to dig for them, delving beneath the layers of plastic. His claws clinked against the metal canister and he paused.

“Father?”

He shook himself and felt for the sausages, counting the remaining cans automatically before he pulled one out.

Five.

He grasped the can and pierced it with the flat, sharp human tool, moving it around the rim to remove the top, a task that had stymied him at first. He peeled back the thin metal and offered a sausage, cold and dripping with liquid, to the child.

The food was gone in a moment and he proffered another. The hatchling gulped the morsel and looked at him. “Now you, Father.”

Obedient, he popped a sausage into his mouth and chewed, savoring the taste of bland, processed meat as he watched the child hunt through the rucksack for the canister of water. The hatchling took a long pull from the plastic jar and offered it.

He reached out and accepted the jug, his primary mouthparts splitting around the neck, tongue extending to probe the liquid. The water was cool in his throat.

He pushed the empty sausage can, still partly filled with liquid, back towards the child. “Drink,” he said.

The hatchling emptied the can and tossed it off the edge of the road. It bounced and rolled to a halt, strange and forlorn among the piles of ash and the remains of vegetation.

He battened the rucksack and rose. “Let’s go.”

The child hopped obediently to his feet and followed. They walked in silence for several long minutes.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“Where does this road go?”

“South.”

“Back there?”

“Not directly, but yes.”

“I don’t want to go back there.”

“I know, but we have to.”

“To get the ship?”

“Yes.”

“And then we’ll go home, right?”

“Yes, then we’ll go home.”

“Good.”


	2. Chapter 2

_“He went from Graham's Town to Kimberley, and from Kimberley to Khama's Country, and from Khama's Country he went east by north, eating melons all the time, till at last he came to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees.” – Rudyard Kipling, Just So Stories_

 

The river crawled before them, the waters thick and grey with sludge.

He paused on the bank to get his bearings. It was a dangerous place to be; the presence of water would attract others and the lap of the waves on the shore could mask a lurking enemy, but it was also the only true landmark he knew. 

He retrieved the jar from the rucksack and squatted on the sand. He dipped up some water and held it up. Specks of sediment swirled and danced, spinning as though caught in a tiny storm.

He tipped the bottle and took a drink.

The taste of silt flooded his mouth and grit scraped against his throat, but the liquid lacked the foul flavor of fetid water. He extended the jar to the child.

The hatchling had to use both hands to support the jug as he sucked at the water. He finally pulled away, tiny mandibles working to collect the droplets which hung from his primary mouthparts, and handed the jar back.

He unlocked his legs and climbed to his feet, beckoning for the child to follow.

 

Four days out along the river they ran out of food.

He’d hoped they might find another hut, but the area they were passing through seemed mostly uninhabited. They drank from the river and continued on.

He considered opening the peaches and feeding them to the child, but it would be a pointless solution, filling an empty belly with something that could not nourish it. 

Three days later they came across the carcass of a cow, stripped by humans or animals, the skeleton grey with dirt. He sifted among the bones, cracking open those that remained, too large and tough for whatever had killed the cow and offered the scraps of marrow not yet dried to the hatchling. He sat and rested, listening to the sound of the river and the scrape of small, bristled mandibles against the spongy internals of the bones.

“Father?” the question was hesitant.

“Yes?”

“Are we going to die?”

“No, we’re not going to die.”

“What if we don’t find any food?”

“We’ll find food.”

“What if we don’t though?”

“We have water, we can go a long way yet. We’ll find something eventually.”

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“How many moons does our planet have?”

“Seven.”

“I want to see them.”

“You will.”

 

Hunger made him sleep more heavily, folded among the roots and brush at the base of a large tree and he was woken by the snap of a branch beneath a heavy foot.

He was instantly alert, hearts racing. Antennae waved, tasting the air: human scent, the crunch of leaves and sticks beneath many feet, the underlying stench of blood, his kind and theirs.

He glanced down at where the hatchling was nestled at his side. The little one was deathly still; the flutter of his breath almost unnoticeable, the glint of eyes the only sign of life in that instinctive rigor.

He gripped the arc gun more tightly and lay quiet.

The murmur of voices, speaking in a tongue he did not understand.

A raised utterance: anger. 

Muttering.

The crack of a human weapon and a sharp cry.

The hatchling hid his face against his side.

More arguing.

His fingers were numb around the grip of the gun.

Wet, crunching sounds, an eternity of butchery, and then finally the tramping noise of their passage, footsteps fading into the distance. 

He loosed one arm from his weapon, clasped the child to him and closed his eyes.

 

They’d left the head of the man they killed.

He stripped the muscle from the face and neck and wrapped it in a corner of the plastic tarp. Cracked the skull and scooped out the brains, which they ate immediately. Swallowed the eyeballs, which burst when eaten, filling their throats with liquid. Crunched and splintered the bones, sucking out every bit of marrow.

The sudden influx of sustenance was dizzying. He wanted to lie down and sleep, but they couldn’t stay.

He closed the rucksack, tucking away the last precious scraps of meat. “Let’s go.”

The hatchling didn’t answer.

“Little one?”

The child was crouched; examining the stringy lump of hair and skin left when he’d ripped off the man’s scalp and tossed it aside.

“Little one?”

“He looks a lot like the cows and goats we’d get back there. All in pieces.”

“He’s not though.”

“I know.”

“It’s better not to eat humans.” 

“We ate him.” 

“The man was already dead, and we are starving.”

“So it was okay to eat him?”

“Yes.”

“If he was one of us, would we still eat him?”

He went still.

“Yes,” he said finally. He knelt before the child. “I would do anything to protect you, to keep you alive. And if that means killing my own kind, eating them, then I will do it.”

The hatchling met his eyes.

“Okay,” he said.


	3. Chapter 3

_“Things fall apart. The center cannot hold._  
 _Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,_  
 _The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere_  
 _The ceremony of innocence drowned;” – William Butler Yeats, “The Second Coming”_

 

He dreamed sometimes.

Dreams didn’t differentiate between old and new terrors. Flames, the fists and guns of MNU security, blood on rotted teeth and flattened mandibles; images melted into an amorphous mass of _before_ and _after_. 

Sometimes he was running again, the child in his arms, a yellow-edged shadow at his side.

Hiding, exhaustion and the pang of empty bellies lost in the wash of dread, the flood of adrenaline that sent tremors rippling through his body even as he tried to stay _stillstillstill_.

Yellow clawed hands yanking him close, the desperate twine of bodies in a wordless striving for comfort and meaning, then shoving him away. _Run, I’ll draw them off!_ Dust and ash in clouds, choking on grit, small limbs wrapped around his throat.

The pop and scream of hatchlings extinguished before their time. Hands clutching the small rounded curve of his abdomen as though he could keep the tiny life safe inside his body.

A single drop of dark fluid, suspended and gleaming for a moment, falling to land on thin membrane which bubbled and pulsed in response. The smooth shape of the cylinder, marked and pitted with dirt. The painstaking work of years.

Hope.

One of his own, crouched quadrupedal over a body, shell split and yawning, mandibles working as it ate. Exoskeleton red as the blood which stained it.

And, still more terrifying, glowing recollections of a world long before. Sand beneath his feet, the soothing warmth of another star, the click and rustle of companions, the elaborate dance of moons above him, so real he woke and reached, striving to touch the phantasm.

It was then he feared for his mind.

Tonight was no different. He twisted, held fast by vines and bracken, mimicry of the crude, effective traps that littered parts of the forest. 

Deafening tamp of footsteps. Inevitable.

Clawing the dirt, the thrashings of a doomed thing.

Skeletal faces, skin stretched tight, exoskeleton dull with malnutrition.

_We hunger._

Multifingered hands reaching.

“Father?”

The hatchling’s voice pierced the fog and dragged him back. He jerked upright, the dream dissipating in a tingling wash which left him trembling as though he’d been doused in icy water.

The child’s eyes glistened in the gloom.

“What’s wrong, Father?” 

“I was having a dream.”

“A bad dream?”

“Yes.”

“What was it about?”

“Nothing important. Just strange things. Don’t you dream some nights?”

The child cocked his head, thinking.

“Not anymore.”


	4. Chapter 4

_“Every morning in Africa, a Gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning a Lion wakes up. It knows it must outrun the slowest Gazelle or it will starve to death. It doesn't matter whether you are a Lion or a Gazelle... when the sun comes up, you'd better be running.” – African Proverb_

 

The man’s head lasted them three days.

It might have been longer, but the child insisted they share the meager rations. Refused to touch his own food until his parent partook in the scraps of meat, slimy and dusty in the in the pocket of the tarp.

The woods bordering the river had sheltered them well, but now memory told him they must split away from the snaking stream and head south to the city.

He filled the jar with river water and sealed it. Urged the hatchling to drink one last time before they made for the open plains.

He hesitated on the border of the forest, looking beyond the skeletal remains of trees, and made to step from cover.

A tug on his ragged clothing stopped him. 

“Father,” the hatchling pointed to the southeast.

He looked.

Beyond the trees a man was running, two others in hot pursuit. Dark shapes, which he recognized as human tools, fitted and reshaped into weapons, were carried raised. Limbs jerked and flailed as the three men ran. One of the pursuers was faster than the other, creating a macabre parade as they raced across hillocks and ditches.

As he watched, the man stumbled, rolling over, raising clouds of ash as he slid to a halt. The swifter hunter was upon him in a moment. The tool-weapon lifted.

Small claws clenched in his clothing.

His heartbeats seemed far too loud.

The man cowered, hands raised.

The child tugged again.

“Father,” high and anxious.

The arc gun came up.

His hands trembled and he missed the first one, though not completely. A human shriek of pain split the air as both lower limbs were vaporized. The man crashed to the ground, the weapon rolling away.

The other human turned while running, a wild jerking motion which almost tipped him over. Eyes twitched, focused, saw. Wide gash mouth opened; preparation for a cry. 

His aim was true this time.

Blood and gristle rained upon the final man, still sprawled in the dust.

Silence.

He lowered the gun.

He broke from the trees and strode towards the men, antennae twitching as he scanned the area. No others appeared to have been alerted to their presence. The last man was frozen as he moved towards them.

As he approached a moan from the intact hunter indicated he still lived, though the blood pumping into the dust said he would not be for long. 

The sound seemed to bring the last human to life. Legs scrabbled, body lifted and lurched and the man tore away in the direction of the woods. Plunged into concealing brush and vanished.

“Wait!” the hatchling called, running after the human.

“Little one!” he lunged and snatched a tiny limb as the child made for the forest. “What are you doing?”

“I wanted to tell him that it’s okay. That he’s safe now.”

“You cannot. He might hurt you.”

“But we rescued him.”

“It does not matter. He is not safe to approach.”

Small antennae drooped. “Can I at least give him the peaches?” The clicked approximation was awkward in the child’s mouth, but the foreign word didn’t conceal the hope behind it.

He paused in his reflexive refusal at the strangeness of the request. “Why?”

“Because he looks hungry and scared too.”

He could find no words.

Large eyes looked up at him without guile.

He sighed.

“Very well, but quickly. And be careful.”

The hatchling clicked his acknowledgement and scampered towards the bushes where the human hid.

Keen eyes watched as the child placed the can down in the dust, a cautious distance away from the concealing brush.

“It’s okay,” the hatchling called. “We’re not going to hurt you. These are for you.”

“He can’t understand you, little one.”

“I know,” the child hurried back to his side, small feet kicking up ash. “But maybe he understands what I mean.”

“Perhaps, now come and help.”

Life had drained from the wounded man as they spoke and he knelt beside the body. Reached out and ripped the scraps of clothing away, revealing skin stretched taut, ridges of ribs stark. 

He ran a hand down the flat plane of the stomach, still and silent.

He had no need of human tools here. 

Skin and muscle parted beneath his claws. He pulled the entrails away and reached for the internal organs. Peeled out the liver and offered it to the child.

The floppy reddish organ looked absurdly large in the hatchling’s hands. The child hummed in contentment and bit into his prize.

Blood oozed sluggishly as he worked, no longer pushed along by the heart he could feel as he delved into the chest cavity. His claws severed veins, arteries. He pulled the pump from its resting place.

It filled the palm of his hand, still flush with blood.

He raised it to his face, bit. Liquid gushed into his throat. He swallowed.

As he continued to disassemble the man, slicing him into manageable pieces which were laid on the tarp, he came to an unsettling conclusion.

There was too much. They would need to dry the meat to prevent spoilage.

And the quickest way was also the riskiest.

He looked about the plain. They were still alone, no others come looking for the hunters or hunted. A low, small fire might be worth the risk.

“Little one, see if you can gather some brush.”

The hatchling gulped the remains of the liver and chirped in agreement.

He finished butchering the man and set the meat aside. Digging into the ash with bloody claws, he scooped out a shallow depression for the fire pit. Dragged the tarp near the hole and raised part of it up over the hollow like a partial tent, to catch the smoke and heat.

The child returned with a small bundle of dry sticks. He dumped them into the hole and straightened, pointing “Father, look.”

The human had crept from the bushes while he worked and had the can. Eyes jerked up, met with his and the man tensed, hunching over the metal cylinder. He held the stare for a moment longer, letting the human know that he was being observed, before dropping his gaze back to his work, though he continued to watch out of the corner of his eye.

“Little one, get the matches out of the pack.”

After a moment the man returned his attention to the can, turning it over a few times, before reaching into his boot. A small, sharp bit of metal was produced.

The human wedged the can in the dust and stabbed the piece of metal down into the top, working it around the edge and peeling back the lid. Hands trembled as the can was lifted and tipped. Throat worked, gulping, the sucking sounds just audible to his sensitive ears. 

A half-empty book of matches was slipped into his palm. With care he peeled out a frail paper stick, holding it between two fingers. He’d wasted a great many matches, snapped beneath fingers far too large to hold them, before he learned to do this properly. Bringing book and match down close to the dry brush, he struck.

Light flared as chemicals combusted, swelling into a tiny flame. He touched the match to the dried curl of a leaf and watched it catch, fire licking its way into the pile of kindling. Sat back and watched it smolder.

Dark was closing in, turning the nearby woods to an abstract black smear and the still seated man to a lighter smudge against them. He stirred the fire, fanning the thin smoke over the meat.

Sleepy and full from his meal, the child dozed by his side.

He turned the strips of meat, starting to crinkle and shrink.

The man remained in his position.

The fire was nothing more than glowing coals when he heard the scrape of boots against the ground.

The man, a shadow in the dim light of the fire, was creeping towards them. 

He sat a bit straighter, hand resting on the arc gun, and watched.

The human scooted forward, half crouched to the ground like the simian ancestor he sprang from, inching into the circle of dim light cast by the fire. Crouched just inside the border and curled up, bringing his lower limbs in close to his chest.

He continued to watch. 

The man peeked up for a moment and quickly dropped his gaze.

The fire crackled, a twig crumbling in a small shower of sparks.

The human stared at the fire. 

“Did you like the peaches?”

The hatchling’s voice startled them both; his hand clenched around the arc gun and the human twitched, a convulsive shudder which shook the entirety of his body. He opened his mouth to reiterate the futility of communication when the human spoke.

“Yeah, they were good. Thanks, kid.”

He went still. Though over time his people and the humans who interacted with them had come to a mutual understanding of their respective languages, the chances of meeting such a person were still small. 

His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How is it you can understand our language?”

The man flinched and fumbled. “Well, that is…”

His hand tightened around his weapon, lifted. “MNU.”

Eyes widened and the human began to scramble backwards. “Wait just a fokking minute, I—”

He rose to his knees, leveling the arc gun. “Go.”

“I was a fokking pencil pusher, okay? Non-human relations, that’s how I can understand your fokking language. I’m begging you man don’t—”

“Father,” the child’s voice was pitched with distress.

“Leave, now. Go and you shall not be harmed.”

“And go fokking where?” the human bellowed. “Go back and be caught by the fokking blood gangs, stuffed into some larder and cut into pieces?” The man staggered to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. “Then just go ahead and fokking kill me now, ‘cause that’s what’ll happen!”

He seemed to realize his threatening posture and tone and contracted in on himself, drawing his limbs in. His voice dropped, pleading. “Please man, fokking help me.”

“And what do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know. Let me go with you?”

“Impossible.”

“Father…”

“Silence, little one.”

“Please,” the human cast about, desperate. “I’ll help out, whatever you need. I owe you, you saved my life, gave me those peaches.”

“A life debt?”

“You want to call it that, fine. Just please.”

“You have no reason to trust or like my people. Why come to us?” 

The man seemed to deflate. “You’re the only people that gave a fokking damn,” he said softly, shaking his head. It dropped towards his chest and a strange laugh erupted from him, “Not even people. Fokking prawns.”

Silence hung between them for a long moment.

At last he spoke. “We have no extra food to share. You find your own.”

The human glanced at the nearly dried meat by the fire and shuddered. “Agreed.”

“Make one threatening motion towards myself or the child and I will not hesitate to kill you.”

“Got it.”

He settled back into his spot by the fire. After a few moments the man sank down, creeping closer to the dying flames. The hatchling tucked himself back in by his side.

“Do you have a name, human?”

The man looked startled, but extended a hand. “Wikus Van de Merwe.”

He stared at the limb as though it were some strange creature. He’d seen the humans greet each other in this manner, but no one had ever acknowledged him in this way.

He extended his hand slowly and wound it around the human’s, graceless as too few fingers tried to clasp too many. Groped for the human designation they’d attached to him, mouth forming words he thought he’d left behind forever.

“My name is Christopher Johnson.”


	5. Chapter 5

_“‘You’ve ruined it for me you know.’_  
 _‘Ruined what?’_  
 _‘Being alone.’”- Out of Africa_

He perched on a still intact fence, keeping watch as Wikus and the child scavenged the village, no more than a handful of cottages, for supplies.

The human had kept his word: helping to make camp, participating wherever he could, even carrying the child once when the hatchling tired, but as they moved closer to the city he was increasingly aware of the risks involved by including another in their plan, particularly a human.

So far he’d fended off the man’s occasional questions with short, uninformative answers and refused to reveal the motives behind his actions. Wikus knew they were returning to Johannesburg, but not why. 

He tipped his head back for a moment and watched the sky. The grey fleece underbellies of the clouds were swollen with rain.

The crackle of boot on brush brought his attention back to the ground. The human was returning, a limp sack in one hand and the child at his side. The hatchling had hold of a small, dirty plastic jug, which he moved through the air in mimicry of flight.

Wikus sat in the dust near the post and opened the grubby sack.

“Not much in the way of food, but the house on the western edge has a rain barrel, still part full. Water’s clean.”

“Good.”

The human delved into the sack and brought out a dusty handful of some sort of grain. Using his hand as a funnel, he directed the seeds into his mouth and ate.

He watched the bones and muscles of the jaw work. As promised, Wikus had not asked to share in their supplies, grubbing as best he could from the cottages and fields for the occasional fibrous yam or handful of corn intermingled with rodent droppings. Once he witnessed the human kill a rat, as thin and tenacious as Wikus was himself, with a stone.

The man swallowed his mouthful of grain. “We going to move on?”

He hesitated and looked back up at the sky.

“Christopher?”

It felt unreal; to be addressed with that name. He knew it was his of course, given with the clothing and the human letters painted on his exoskeleton. _Property of MNU._ But no one in the district called him Christopher. He thought of his true name, but doubted the human could even comprehend the blend of vocalizations and scent cues which comprised the identity of an individual. He hadn’t been able to answer when the human asked for the hatchling’s name. How to condense those complex layers of smell and sound into a single phrase?

“Christopher?”

He found his voice at last. “No, not tonight I think. It looks as if a storm is coming.”

Wikus craned his neck to examine the skies. “Well, the house on the edge has water. Roof’s intact too.”

“That is acceptable.”

Wikus dusted off his hands and hauled himself upright with a groan and the creak and snap of joints. He rose and followed the human, the arc gun carried easy but ready at his side. “Come, little one.”

The hatchling hopped to his feet, still clutching the jug, and scampered ahead of them.

Wikus watched as the child dipped and angled the makeshift toy. “He’s got to be what, six, seven years old?”

“Eight.”

“So he was born before…”

“Yes.”

“How did you manage it?” the human said, referring to the spawning licenses and restrictions, preventative measures put in place by MNU to curb his people’s growing numbers.

“Not easily. The licensing procedure is complex.”

“But you got through okay,” Wikus shook his head. “Smart fokking prawn, aren’t you?”

He did not reply.

The human continued, as if to himself. “Tania was talking about kids,” he murmured. “Just before—” he cut off before he could finish. He took a deep breath and scrubbed his hand over his face, voice low and subdued. “How do you do it?”

He didn’t inquire after the other human or mention the abrupt subject change; they’d all lost companions. “What?”

“Keep going, day after day, in this?” he gestured to the wasteland around them. “With them chasing you? Hell, just get up in the fokking morning?”

He halted for a moment, glancing down at the weapon in his arms.

“Christopher?”

“It is…a question that I have asked myself,” he said. He lifted his eyes, finding the child with the immediacy and ease of long practice. “The short answer: him.”

“The kid?”

“He is…the reason for everything. I will stay with him, protect him, until I am no longer living.”

They walked in silence.

At last the human spoke again, his tone sharpened with despair. “That’s good. You’ve got to stick together.”

Unsure how to respond, he looked back to the child where he walked a short distance ahead of them. He opened his mouth to call the hatchling back to his side when the sight of something arrested him.

A shadow was emerging from a shallow ditch beneath one of the cottages. Heavy, quadruped and loping, ash-grey as everything else around them.

His antennae twitched. Not human, not his kind; for a moment his mind stuttered, stalled, trying to shape and interpret something never seen before.

Something that should not still exist.

Spotted haunches tensed, the movement of each muscle clearly visible beneath taut, dehydrated skin. Dark eyes fixed.

He heard Wikus cry out in warning.

The creature hit the child, bowling them both over. White teeth glinted in a blunt muzzle before jaws snapped closed around one tiny limb. A buzzing cry of pain sliced through the air.

The arc gun jerked up but he did not fire, the bodies of the creature and his son were enmeshed, too close, too close, can’t get a clear shot. His hearts pounded, the weapon that had protected them across the vast continent heavy and for the moment useless in his arms.

A rock whizzed past him and connected, striking the creature on the side of the head and splitting open an ear. Blood scent flared. A second stone, flung on the heels of the first, struck the creature on the haunch. A scrawny leg buckled and collapsed. 

His weapon thudded to the ground and he lunged forward on four feet. Hands locked around the muzzle and wrenched, straining, separating the jaws.

The child dropped free, but he did not stop. Subdued the thrashing body with his weight and stretched, stretched until he felt the jaw snap, muscle and sinew rip and the heavy awkward head lolled limp and lifeless.

“Christopher?”

Mangy fur separated beneath his claws. He tore through the abdominal wall, spilling viscera into the dust. Ripped and shredded _Won’t touch him, won’t hurt, won’tkill—_

“Christopher!”

He froze, hands still buried in the remains of the corpse. 

Wikus stood a short distance away, staring. The hatchling was cradled against his side, face hidden in the folds of the human’s clothing.

“Christopher?”

He shuddered and withdrew, rolling back onto his haunches. His hands and front were drenched in blood, bright with absorbed oxygen, the contrast dizzying against the grey of the landscape. He stared at his fingers, watched the claws curl and flex. Blood dripped into the dirt.

Scrape of boots in the dust; the human approached, slow and cautious. He paused a short distance away and sank to his knees, shifting the hatchling up before shuffling closer.

“Chris?”

He watched the awkward motions with clinical detachment. Wikus adjusted his grip on the child and extended the hatchling towards him. The muscles in his forearms stood out, thin and corded.

He accepted the child by reflex, bringing him in close. Small arms wound around his neck.

The human wriggled back; gathered his feet beneath him and stood. He reached out, offering a hand. “We should probably get out of the open, yeah?” 

His voice quavered.

He watched the hand, observed the twitch and tremble of the fingers. 

“Father?”

He reached, took the hand and lifted himself upright. The human tried to draw back, but he didn’t release, gripped the wrist and held tight. Eyes, the palest shade of blue grey, as though the color had been washed from them, jerked up and met his. He peered into them; saw the fear, the loneliness, and beneath it, a hint of defiance, of steel. 

He relaxed his grip.

To his surprise, the human didn’t pull away. Wikus held his gaze a moment longer before rearranging their hands, pale fingers smearing the blood already drying on his claws, and tugged him deeper into the village.

He followed.


	6. Chapter 6

_"While I was chasing it...and once I nearly had it...while I was chasing it, it was as if something inside me, something that had been dead for a long, long time, slowly came back to life again" – Athol Fugard, A Place with the Pigs_

 

Storm clouds opened, fulfilling the promise made hours before and rain sheeted down, soaking them in moments. They took shelter in the house with the rain barrel; a small, two room shack. 

It was dim inside and dusty dry. No furniture present, but a small stone fireplace was filled with broken remnants. The corners were heaped with refuse. Wikus set the arc gun and rucksack, which he didn’t remember dropping, beside the fireplace and unearthed a scorched aluminum pot from among the wreckage of the room.

He leaned against the wall and allowed himself to slide down into a seated position, cradling the hatchling close as he watched Wikus fuss over the fireplace, coaxing the wooden splinters into a low blaze.

The warmth soothed and he boosted the child up against his chest, scraping his mandibles gently across fragile plating to dislodge caked dirt and blood as he hadn’t done since the child was newly hatched, cleaning and reassuring himself that the little one was uninjured. Luck, Wikus had called it, or a miracle; the child’s forelimb bore dents and scratches, but had remained uncrushed by jaws which could crack bone. 

The human was shivering, and as he watched the man stripped out of his wet clothing, shedding filthy layers to lie flat on the floor. Stepping over the discarded clothing, Wikus grabbed hold of the pot, wedged the door open and stepped back out into the rain.

Water sluiced over the man’s body and his hands followed, wiping and scrubbing. He held the pot aloft, swirling it to rinse the dust and ash away and allowing it to fill before retreating back into the house, shaking as he tried to rid himself of the raindrops and closed the door behind him.

Naked, he crouched by the fire, wedging the pot into the layers of ash. Wikus loosed the ties of the rucksack and withdrew two strips of dried meat, shuddering slightly as he dropped them into the pot. Rolling back on his heels, he grasped a long splinter of wood and stirred the water. 

The hatchling squirmed against him, tired of the cleaning. He unlocked his arms with some effort and allowed the child to wriggle free. The hatchling scampered over and peered into the pot. 

“What are you doing?”

Wikus continued to stir. “Making soup.”

“Soup?”

“It’s warm. You’ll like it. Why don’t you try to find a bowl?”

The child chirped in agreement and dug into a pile of trash.

The water steamed and bubbled.

“I found one!”

Wikus accepted the shallow bowl, wooden and cracked, and dipped up some of the liquid into it. He blew across the top, steam welling in the wake of his breath, and offered the bowl to the hatchling.

The child accepted, balancing the bowl between his hands, thin tongue uncoiling as he sipped. His antennae twitched. “It’s good.”

“Of course it is. Finish up, some of this is for your old man.”

He watched as the hatchling gulped the soup and handed the bowl back to Wikus, his chest tight.

The child delved into the rucksack, withdrawing the tarp and spreading it into a messy nest near the fireplace before burrowing in amongst the layers. Wikus dipped the bowl into the pot, droplets trickling down the sides as he raised and extended it towards him. “Here you go.”

He took the bowl, his claws brushing against fragile, flexible fingers. For a moment his mouth worked, wanted to speak his thanks, but the words died inside him. He lifted the bowl and drank. Warmth suffused him, flooding down his throat and spreading outward. He looked down into the bowl, watched the light flash and twinkle on the surface of the liquid. His hands dropped into his lap, still holding the bowl.

“Christopher? Something wrong with it?”

His internal mouthparts shifted and clicked against each other, as though disconnect from his mind, unable to form a coherent word. Finally he held out the bowl. 

The human lifted his hands. “Uh, that’s okay. No thanks.”

He pushed, leaning forward, stretching towards Wikus.

“I’m fine, really. Not hungry.”

A lie. He could see the ridges of bones stretching against soft skin, the sunken hollows of flesh. He pressed, beseeching, lifting the bowl to the man’s mouth. 

Hands rose, gripped his wrist, the knuckles gleaming white.

He tipped the bowl and watched the man choke and gulp, drops streaming down his face. Wikus’s arms shook.

Slowly the grip on his wrist relaxed and he relented, easing the bowl back.

A wisp of steam rose from what remained of the crude broth. Wikus stared at him, eyes wide.

He held his hand out. 

The human made a soft, despairing noise, and reached for the bowl.

 

He didn’t know what prompted him, loneliness or gratitude or madness. He didn’t know why Wikus responded.

They left the sleeping hatchling and crawled into the second room of the shack, more of a lean-to than a proper storage room. It was too cramped to allow for either of them to stretch out, so he propped himself against a wall, legs bent to allow Wikus to slide between them.

The man was jumpy, reaching out and withdrawing, hands shaking as though he didn’t quite dare touch. He still couldn’t find proper words, but voiced a soothing subsonic rumble of invitation in the proto-language of his people, and reached for Wikus.

He felt light and disconnected, running his claws across the expanse of skin, pale and soft as one of his own in molt, gently, gently. Wikus squirmed in response and he leaned forward, combing his mandibles through the man’s hair. 

Wikus spoke, but his mind couldn’t focus, couldn’t translate. 

He worked his way down, cleaning remnants of grime in a ritual of gratitude and affection which rose from the depths of memory, remembrances of warmth and yellow claws. His primary mouthparts writhed against the man’s chest, twining and pressing and Wikus jerked. Musky scent welled up. 

He didn’t know the scent, heavier and less sharp than arousal in his own kind, but the organ which swelled between them was at once strange and familiar. Wikus was speaking again, trying to turn aside, and his mind didn’t follow, but his body knew. He shifted, drew the man forward, opened, and accepted.

Wikus let out a soft choked sound and made as if to withdraw. He hung on, stroked and rumbled his encouragement, guiding the half-involuntary thrusts until the man shuddered and seized, jerking in climax.

Wikus sagged against him, breath hot against the sensitive flesh of his gills. The man mumbled something into his throat, unintelligible, but he hummed tones of pleasure and affection in response.

They lay quiet, listening to the rush of air through lungs and gills. He was nearly asleep when he felt a hand slide between their bodies, timid, reaching to touch the place they joined. Fingers, thinner and more dexterous than his own, slipped inside him, pressed and stroked. 

Pleasure flared, hot and shocking and his body clenched. His arms tightened around Wikus and the man voiced a muffled yelp of protest, but persisted, fingers delving deeper. He shuddered, felt his muscles spasm and the response, the swelling, the stretching and then Wikus was thrusting again, little rocking motions that excited parts of his body he’d thought atrophied.

The man was vocalizing, soft grunts and moans, alien sounds but strangely stimulating nonetheless. Then Wikus shoved forward, pressed up with clever fingers and climax rolled through him like a wave. Every muscle tightened and his limbs drew up, enfolding the man. A hoarse muffled grunt against his ear and then a gush of warmth inside him.

Silence, broken only by the man’s harsh panting.

Weariness enveloped him. His limbs went limp, slumping against the walls of the lean-to. He felt Wikus withdraw, had half a mind to reach out again, but then darkness welled up, wrapped around him and suddenly the desire to just _sleep_ consumed him and he sank into fog.

 

The dim grey glow of dawn light through the window of the main room woke him. He lifted his head from the wall. Sometime during the night Wikus must have wiped him down, since no remnants of human semen remained on his body and clothing dried stiff from the rain, though the pungent scent lingered. He turned, seeking. 

The man was crouched nearby, looking out into the main room. Wikus was still naked and here and there the paleness of his body was broken by bruises, most old, though a set on the shoulder turned towards him was fresh and just forming, left by his own claws.

“I thought we’d stay put when things first starting getting bad,” Wikus’s voice was low. “We were pretty far from the city, and the riots. I filled the bathtub, like you’re supposed to during an earthquake and there were groceries in the house. The power went out, but we lit some candles. Scented ones; she got them for our anniversary.”

Wikus leaned back against the wall. “I guess neither of us thought anyone would come out that far. Most of our neighbors left when the fires started. We stayed in and kept the lights low. Broke some windows to make it look like the house had been looted. Stayed and hid.”

He shook his head, “We didn’t know the neighbors across the way from us were still there. They didn’t keep out of sight and they came for them.”

“It was the woman screaming that woke us up. The man was already dead; two of the fokkers were working on him on the pavement. But the woman…” Wikus broke off and shuddered.

“When she saw that, it was like something broke. I said we should get up and go, head for the hills maybe but she kept saying, ‘Don’t you see? Don’t you get it? When they find us, and they will, they’re going to kill you, and they’re going to rape me. And there won’t be a damn thing you can do about it’.”

Wikus’s voice cracked. “And the fokking clincher? She was right. What the fok could I have done? I tried to reason with her, told her I’d protect her, but she just kissed me and smiled; that little half-smile like when she thought I was being silly. Said, ‘I’ll be waiting for you’ and walked out into the dark.”

Wikus’s head sank into his palms and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And I was supposed to follow her. There were things everywhere could have done it. Sharp bits of metal and glass.” He drew one finger lightly across his throat. “Fok, even cleaner under the sink. But I was too much of a fokking coward.” He pulled his hands back and looked down at them. “Useless coward. Didn’t fokking deserve her.”

He waited, to see if the man would continue, but Wikus just stared down, head bowed against the strengthening dawn light. He shifted forward, approached and cupped the man’s hands with his own.

Wikus’s head came up, but he ignored the questioning look for a moment and peered down. Observed the lines in the palms, sharp with ground dirt, the cut and scraped knuckles, the split nails, felt the wiry strength that had directed stones in his hatchling’s defense. The strength that had carried the man across the veldt with only some glowing internal ember to push him onwards. Wanted to say thank you, not a coward, I understand.

Instead he looked into Wikus’s face and said: “Let me tell you a story about where I come from.”


	7. Chapter 7

_"He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground-foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it." – Cormac McCarthy, The Road_

 

The streets of the district were empty.

The great concrete gates hung open, cracked and marked with graffiti, human etchings transected by the colorful lines. The ship hung suspended above the city, a looming shadow half visible in the ash-choked air. 

He followed the dirt pathways, clambering over the piles of garbage which spilled out across them like waves of water frozen at the moment of cresting, Wikus and the hatchling in his wake. Following the songlines of a story told to a child and then to a man, a story of sweat and blood and prayers. 

A story of freedom.

Here the remnants of a drawing; one of his own standing above three humans stretched out dead. Three streets to the north. Etched in house paint dyed red with the blood of livestock; the sigil of leadership. Turn to the west. Forward five hundred paces and then…

He froze.

“What’s wrong?” Wikus’s voice was quiet, but in the silence of the street it might have been a shout. 

He did not answer, scanning the shacks before him, antennae twitching. The next marker was gone, the streets a mess and the scent lines confused, a tangled sprawl. 

His hearts sank.

“Christopher?”

“I…I am unsure of how to return. The markings are gone, and the scent, I cannot…”

“What was your identification number?” Wikus’s voice was urgent.

“I don’t see what—”

“Just tell me the fokking number!”

He grated his internal mouthparts together in annoyance. “Very well.” He thought for a few moments, struggling to recall. “105-192-119.”

Wikus stared out into the streets. “That way,” he said finally, pointing towards the far side of the district. “‘192’ was in the northwest sector.”

He gave the human an assessing look, but set out in the direction indicated.

 

His shack had collapsed inward, the metal walls buckled and rusted. Here and there he could see the bare wires and twisted, melted plastic of primitive human computer components. He ignored the wreckage and grasped one of the metal sheets, heaving upward.

The sheet wobbled and bent under its own weight, threatening his balance and he struggled. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of Wikus saying, “Keep watch, kid,” and then small hands braced beneath his own, and they shoved the sheet aside. 

He burrowed, through metal and wood, down, down delving until at last he reached the structure of the floor. Claws dug, wrenched and then it was metal he was touching, not fragile sheets but alloys constructed to withstand the stresses of flight. The hatch gave under a sharp tug and then he tasted air, stale, but imbued with familiar scents. Metal and oil, fluid, his personal odor, left behind by years of painstaking repairs.

Safety.

He descended the ladder headfirst, joints rotating to allow him to keep his balance. Behind Wikus puffed and swore softly, scrambling and slipping down the ladder.

He ran his hands across pipes and wires, checking connections. No apparent oxidation or leakage.

Beside him he heard a faint gasp.

“This is…” Wikus seemed unable to find words, staring about the inside of the command module, his eyes wide. “This is…highly illegal.”

The sheer absurdity of the statement halted him for a moment and he stared at the man. Wikus met his glance and snorted suddenly, turning aside and ducking his head as if overcome.

It took him a moment to realize the human was laughing.

He shook his head and turned aside, reaching for the rucksack when a shrill noise, nearly ultrasonic, reached his ears and froze him. It was spoken in a familiar tone, but the reaction to it was instinctive. 

A warning call.

_Little one!_

He was up the ladder in an instant, almost bowling Wikus over, arc gun in his hand, out into muffled sunlight.

He hit the ground in a puff of ash, braced his feet and raised his head and weapon, searching. 

The hatchling was nowhere to be seen.

His antennae twitched and he jerked to the side. _Danger scent!_ He had a split second impression of a soldier’s red carapace before weight slammed into him. Mandibles snapped near his throat and claws dug into the rucksack still slung across his body.

He wrenched away and the rucksack shredded, spilling its contents into the dirt. A moment of instinctive horror as the canister tumbled to the ground and then thought vanished as he grappled with the soldier, using the solid block of the arc gun as a shield as the creature sought to gut him. He shoved back, loosening its grip and slammed the weapon across its throat.

The soldier dropped, but lashed out with its hind limbs even as it fell and he stumbled, collapsing into the dirt. The creature was on him in a moment, clawing its way up his body and he brought his free arm up to shield—

Clang of metal against a hard carapace and the soldier rolled away, snapping at Wikus wielding a length of metal pipe. The man bared his teeth and swung again.

The soldier caught the pipe and tore it away, tossing it to land in a pile of refuse and lunged for the human.

The arc gun went off.

The dying soldier thrashed in the dirt, remaining limbs jerking as it went through its death throes. It stiffened and shrieked a piercing wail that made his blood run cold. A cry born of a time when they were still small dirt-grubbing creatures, before the first of their kind ever looked to the stars and thought to wonder at them. When Hive meant being subsumed beneath a will greater than one’s own, tiny appendages of a collective individual interested only in feed, reproduce, defend. 

_Here is a threat! Kill!_

The cry caught and swelled, echoing from other throats, rising from the wreckage of the shacks around them even as the soldier bled out and expired. He was beside Wikus before the creature ceased twitching, shoving against the man’s shoulder.

“Run!”

The human turned and fled. He started to follow but stopped and whirled back before he had taken two steps, racing back to where the split rucksack had cast its contents. He stooped, hand closing around the smooth shape of the canister. A shriek, he looked up.

Three soldiers were advancing on him.

He swung his weapon.

His shot clipped one soldier on the shoulder, but didn’t disintegrate the creature completely. The arc gun was heavy, meant to be wielded with two hands and his balance was off. The two other soldiers charged.

“Christopher!”

He didn’t question why the man wasn’t long gone, didn’t think, just trusted. 

He flung the canister.

He didn’t turn to watch human hands fumble the cylinder for a moment and clasp it safe. He squeezed the trigger and watched the two soldiers come apart before his eyes.

A low cry, angry and human, had him whipping around. Another soldier had Wikus pinned against a shack, clawing for the man’s throat.

He lunged, wrenched the soldier back, but the creature hung on, claws shredding Wikus’s sleeves and digging into the flesh below. The human didn’t let go of the canister, struggling, clinging with both hands.

The claws came free and Wikus stumbled back against the wall of the shack, arms jerking up towards his face. He shoved the soldier aside and brought his weapon to bear.

The soldier’s body exploded and he turned to Wikus, who was coughing and choking, eyes streaming. 

“Are you alright?”

The man wiped a free arm across his nose and mouth, leaving blood and black fluid smeared in its wake. “Fokking thing sprayed right in my face.”

He started to speak, but the shriek of approaching soldiers drowned his voice. Wikus spat a bit of dark spittle on the ground and straightened.

“Let’s get the fok out of here.”

 

They crouched in the recess of a nearby shack, listening to the crunching wet sounds as the remaining soldiers tore apart their compatriots.

“Where’s the kid, you think?” Wikus panted. 

“Hiding nearby, most likely. I did not, I think he is unharmed.”

“And you need to get to the ship, right? Get this in there?” He held up the canister.

“Yes.”

The human’s head jerked in acknowledgement. “Then what you need, is a diversion.”

“No, we stick together.”

Wikus pressed the canister into his hand and gave him a lopsided grin.

“I’d ask for the weapon, but I can’t use it anyway.”

“Wikus, don’t—”

“I guess I should thank that fokker for slicing me up. I must smell pretty tasty right about now, eh?” 

“Wikus—”

“Get back to your boy, Christopher. There’s nothing left here. Go home.”

And the human was gone.


	8. Chapter 8

_“There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires.” – Nelson Mandela_

 

He ran.

He could hear the shrieks of the hunting soldiers, high and piercing, but not the triumphant cries of a successful kill. He paused in the street and scanned the shacks around him.

No sign of life. He risked a low call, the soft searching cry of parent to child.

The hatchling popped out of a pile of refuse.

“Father!”

He scooped the child up and pressed him close, hearts pounding with relief. He’d caught no scent of the hatchling’s blood, but the separation had still provoked an instinctive terror in him. 

He loosed the child’s grip on his throat and adjusted him against his side. Pushed the canister into tiny claws.

“Hold onto this, little one. And hang on tight.” 

 

The ship was still open and undisturbed. He hurried down the ladder and set the hatchling down before turning and closing the hatch, barring it from the inside.

He reached for the canister and the child, a mere shadow in the dim glow of the emergency lights, handed it over. He moved towards the front of the ship, seeking the correct input port.

“Father?”

“What is it, little one?”

There, set into a panel close to the floor. He knelt, ducking beneath a mass of wires.

“Where is Wikus?”

He fumbled the canister for a moment, dropping it to the floor of the ship with a dull clank.

“Gone,” he said shortly as he retrieved the cylinder.

“I thought he was coming with us.”

The canister slid into place and the ship hummed to life, main lights flickering for a moment before brightening. “No.”

“Where is he?”

His shoulders sagged. “Still outside.”

“Are we going to leave him there?”

“You are more important. I swore I would get you to safety.”

“What about him?”

He stared at the wall before him.

“Didn’t you say we have to stay together?”

_Run! I’ll draw them off!_

He shuddered.

“Father?”

He felt his resolve crack, waver and reform.

He turned a sharp gaze upon the child.

“Listen to me very closely, little one. I am going to go back out there. If I have not returned in five minutes, I want you to start the ship, just like I taught you. The coordinates are set; it will take you home. After five minutes, whether or not I have returned, I want you out of here.”

“But—”

“Five minutes, understand?”

“What if—”

“Understand?”

Small antennae drooped, “Yes, Father. I promise.”

_Hold on, Wikus._

 

He raced through the streets, weapon clutched in his hand, towards the baying of the soldiers, leaping piles of garbage and skidding down the sides. 

A low rumble split the air, shaking and vibrating the shacks around him, drowning the hunting cries. He froze, gaze darting to the ship above him.

For a moment he thought the hatchling had started the vessel, even though less than a minute had passed. But as a mechanical whir drew his attention to a nearby shack and the cockpit of an exosuit gaped open, he realized.

Four minutes.

He tossed aside the arc gun and climbed in.

 

The exosuit turned the maze of the district into a flat plain. He leaped over shacks, charged across open streets, following the sound trail.

Three minutes.

There.

Up ahead four soldiers had Wikus treed atop a flat roof. The human rained garbage down upon his pursuers, chunks of metal and stone, howling.

“Come on you fokkers! You want me?” the man made an obscene gesture with one bloody hand and flung another bit of rock. “I’m not fokking scared of you!” 

Two minutes.

The weapons of the exosuit leapt to his command. 

Two of the soldiers disintegrated and he cleared the final shack in a bound, landing beside the man’s refuge.

“Wikus!”

Another soldier, mad with blood, attacked from the left. He batted it away, hearing the crunch of exoskeleton as the blow connected.

“Christopher? What the fok are you doing here? I told you—”

“No time! We must go! Climb on!” He held up the arm of the exosuit next to the roof.

“But I—”

“Now!”

The man gave the exosuit a doubtful look but scrambled on, clinging to the wires and components like a strange grey and white parasite. He shifted slightly, bending the arm to compensate for the weight. 

“I’m on.”

One minute.

He ran.

 

Up ahead the ground shook and buckled. He skidded to a halt, nearly throwing Wikus off, if the sound of his cursing was any indication, and watched. 

The earth swelled, bulging upward as the ship rose from its grave like some ponderous and ancient creature from a mudhole, raining filth and garbage upon the landscape.

Slowly the vessel lifted, turning on an unseen axis as the engines rotated into position. The structures rumbled and glowed as the ship prepared to ascend. 

In desperation, he reached for the suit controls and pinged the command module, hoped against hope the message would go through, that the hatchling would understand…

The side hatch of the ship slid open.

He felt breath return even as he darted forward, lifted his arm with Wikus still attached, and clamped onto the entryway with the crude digits of the exosuit.

The ship halted in its rotation, engines squawking in protest and he fought the pull, straining to hold the vessel steady.

“Wikus, climb!”

The human scrambled, wriggling along the length of the metal arm with more skill than he would have expected from a ground dwelling species. With a kick of boots and a flail of limbs, Wikus disappeared over the fingers of the suit and into the hatch.

Now for the tricky part. Claws danced along the interface panel, inputting commands. The metal fingers of the exosuit locked into place, independent of his grip. A flick of controls and the cockpit of the suit split open. He swung out into open air.

The ship was quivering, the engines grinding and popping as it heaved against the weight. He hurried around the back of the suit and began to scale it. 

His claws hooked in between components as he hauled himself upwards. He could see the blue glow of the ship’s internal lighting. Wikus’s face, wan beneath blotches of filth and blood, peering at him through the open hatch. The man’s hand extended towards him.

He reached.

Weight slammed into him and pain flared as something clamped down on the plating of his leg. He twisted, lashing out.

A soldier, missed in his charge through the district, clung to him, mandibles sunk into his limb. 

A cry of alarm, him or Wikus, he wasn’t sure, burst forth and human fingers fastened around his wrist even as he clawed at the creature, kicking and striking.

Wikus was shouting, words lost in the bellow of the engines as exosuit components cracked and began to give way. He felt the weight of the soldier begin to drag him down as the support of the suit failed. 

He reached out with his free hand, grasped the twitching antennae of the soldier, and _ripped_.

A scream the likes of which he’d never heard split the air, half-muffled by his own flesh. Mandibles unlocked and the soldier fell free. A shudder, a crack and the exosuit dropped out from beneath him, leaving him dangling from open hatch.

Freed from the weight, the ship lunged into the air, almost shaking him free. He groped for the edge of the hatch. Wikus had his feet braced against the edges of the hatch as he struggled to hold him. His claws dug into Wikus’s forearm as he tried to use his free hand to lever himself up.

An endless moment of straining, scrambling and then he was through, inside, tumbling on top of Wikus, onto the floor of the ship. 

They lay for a moment, panting, before Wikus broke the silence.

“Crazy fokking prawn.”

He pressed his face into the human’s clothing and laughed and laughed.

 

The command module ascended above the district through cold clouds of ash and moisture, shaking off the final scraps of human refuse as it rose to merge with the mothership.

He leaned against the hull of the ship, listened as the module locked into place, the groan of metal and the whirl of components. The deep roar as the ship sprang to life, engines igniting and sending out a shockwave across dead land, shaking the remains of the city. 

He wondered if all of his people were truly gone, sunk beneath the blood madness, or if some looked up, recognized the vessel which had been both prison and refuge. A reminder on an alien planet. 

A symbol of home.

He pulled his child to him and shut his eyes, breathing in deeply, tasting the familiar scents, blended with the alien musk of the human who sat nearby. The tiny body squirmed against his and the hatchling spoke.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“I’m hungry.”

The words were soft, apologetic, tinged with the fear of one who has learned not to ask for things. He tightened his grip on the child. “Of course, little one.” He released the hatchling and despite his weariness, rolled to his feet and straightened. “Come, we must get the ship into orbit. Then food.” His gut gave a pleased squirm in anticipation of breaking into the dry stores he’d laid in years before, small though they were. “How does that sound?”

The child brightened. “That sounds good.”

He started to tug the hatchling towards the fore of the ship, but paused when he realized Wikus was not following.

“Wikus?” 

The man remained seated, face pressed into his knees. 

“Wikus? Is something wrong?”

The human shook his head.

“Wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said. “I could have gone out all blaze of glory. It’d be alright. I could face her then. Now,” he trailed off. “What the fok am I supposed to do now?”

A mix of sorrow and alarm tugged at him. “You wished for death?”

“No, yes, fok, I don’t know,” Wikus’s head sagged.

The child’s hand tightened in his.

“There’s nothing left,” the man said finally. “She’s gone. No people, no planet. Fok, even no God.”

He hesitated and released the hatchling’s hand, gently touching small antennae before returning to the human’s side. He knelt and reached out, lifted Wikus’s chin and looked into his eyes. Examined the gold vermiculate patterns beginning to creep across the left iris. Tracks of change and new beginnings. 

“My people,” he said. “My planet. My god.”

Wikus looked at him, questioning.

“They are yours, if you will have them.”

The man stared at him for a long moment, and then a loosening, a giving, and a spark kindled in those changing eyes. 

“I’ll hold you to that, you crazy prawn.”

The man’s kiss tasted of black fluid and human blood.


End file.
